


Dead Space from the Helm of the Pop Rock

by callunavulgari



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, IN SPACE!, M/M, Sex, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 17:11:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5172428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Comfort’s the hum and vibration of a plasma-pulse F20 core engine in mid-hyperspace drive. Ease is the steady, oxygenated chill from the central air circulation vents on a tight and narrow sweep of the outer rim of the Tramontane galaxy. Reality is the taste of sparkling water and roasted almonds at moon-rise. He catches Derek’s eyes from across the bar and chuckles when the man raises an eyebrow, tapping his watch and holding up nine fingers.</p><p>Well, Stiles thinks, raising his glass in a sloppy salute. If he’s going to be stranded on a white-zoned planet with a penchant for bad music and the walking dead, at least he’s got a pretty face to look at.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Space from the Helm of the Pop Rock

**Author's Note:**

> Lisa wrote the second chapter of her space pirate thingy at the same time that I was foaming at the mouth for Firefly AUs, and the end result is this. I knew that I wanted to write a scene with Derek and Stiles in a bar, possibly on a satellite that Derek bought when his family died, and it was so close to a scene from an old Axel/Russia fic that Allie's never going to finish that I ended up cannibalizing that scene and stealing the title. 
> 
> And before anyone asks, yes, I set the ending up that way on purpose. No, I don't know if I'll make it into a bigger fic. We shall see what the future has in store, but if I do, that's when the zombies are going to come into the picture. Enjoy!

_Orsto, Tramontane System_  
_71 A.I._  
_Port Orsto Alpha_  
_The Velvet Room_

 

 

 

Derek’s been working the bar since 0600 when the pirate walks in.

The Velvet Room has lost its cleaner customers for the evening. Those who linger behind are the type of clientele that frequently have to be spritzed with the soda gun, lest they drift off face down on the bar. Derek doesn’t charge by the hour, though he probably should.

Derek’s seen the pirate around before. He’s a slender thing, but tall, his body the type that looks like it can’t withstand a couple Gs much less make a living in space. Walks like he’s in a perpetual stand off with gravity, a constant state of free fall. Dirty face, dirty mouth, infectious laugh. He’s a baby jumper, not unlike most of the pilots that come crawling up to the bar with unshaven faces and a bad taste for dirty money, but lacking in both age and nightmares.

He ambles up to the bar, one of those infectious grins stretched wide across his face, and throws himself at the bar stool like it was challenging him to a duel.

“Tall glass of soda water and a bowl of almonds, Mr. Man,” he tells Derek, flashing finger pistols in his direction. Derek supposes that he should be glad that they’re not actual pistols. He’s already had three of _those_ tonight, plus a trio of neon-clad club sluts who’d practically OD’ed in the corner. It’s been a lively evening, and Derek is _tired_.

He heaves a tiny sigh, shooting the kid the fiercest glare that he can muster with his drooping eyelids and puffy, purpling bags under his eyes. He sets the glass down onto the counter with an audible crack.

In contrast to the miniature hoards that roam Port Orsto Alpha by night, Stiles is always by himself. A lone ranger, Laura calls him. Never coming in with girls or a crew— just a bad attitude towards drunks, a fondness for sugary treats, and a mouth that never seemed to close entirely.

Stiles drums his fingers against the bar as he waits, clever eyes skittering around the room. He leans over the bar, still playing it cool, questing fingers searching for the bowl of cookies that Derek usually keeps among the glassware for when Laura forgets to eat before her shift. Derek lets him tuck one cookie under his lip before he reaches out and deftly snatches it out of Stiles’ grasp, tucking it out of sight beneath the counter once more.

“You know those aren’t yours, Stiles,” Derek tells him with a tired, pathetic excuse for a smirk.

“Now that’s just greedy, Der-Bear. You don’t have a kitchen in this bar, how're you gonna feed your _customers_?” Stiles’ scowl is a horrific, half-gaping grimace framed by cookie crumbs. Any unfamiliar employee might have been cowed, but Derek has been working the late night shifts long enough to know that Stiles doesn’t mean it. And sure enough, the scowl turns into a badly disguised pout the moment that Derek turns away to pour the kid some goddamn soda water.

“I don’t feed them, I water them,” Derek tells Stiles with another half-smirk, dropping the glass next to his wrist with a pointed clack.

Stiles’ eyes glint with challenge in the blue-red lighting hanging overhead. He doesn’t break eye contact as he takes the glass and wraps his tongue around the straw, drawing it up into his mouth. He sucks hard, cheeks hollowing with the effort, and then he’s pulling back as if he didn’t just get to third base with Derek’s straw. “Almonds?”

Derek snorts, hooking a bowl of almonds from the far side of the bar and guiding them carefully to Stiles’ elbow. He leans forward, one elbow on the bar as he considers the kid. “Looking for work?” he asks nonchalantly.

Stiles wrinkles his nose up, throwing back a handful of almonds. It’s a small wonder that he doesn’t choke. “As if,” he grunts.

Derek raises one eyebrow, pointedly glancing from the smudges on the kid’s cheeks to the blister-marks on his fingers. Stiles groans, rocking forward until the stool clacks back down on all four legs. Derek hadn’t even noticed they’d been up in the first place. He really must be tired.

“Okay, yes,” Stiles confesses, flinging his hands up. “There’s gotta be something to freight around here. Scott sent word that the Argents might have work but…”

Derek rolls his eyes. “You aren’t dumb enough to take a job from Gerard. He’s got the Galactic Archempire in his back pocket. He’d turn on you a heartbeat, even if the money’s not dirty.”

“Hey now, I didn’t say it was from Gerard.” Stiles takes another gulping swallow of his soda pop, pushing it towards Derek for more. “It’s from Allison, Scott’s fiancee. Sweet girl, for an Argent.”

“So, if you trust her, what’s the problem?”

“Takes me too close to az’uk territory. After last time, I don’t wanna get anywhere near that hell-infested quadrant. Too risky.”

Derek frowns, catching himself drumming his fingers on the bar. He tucks them quickly out of sight. Wouldn’t do to pick up any of Stiles’ mannerisms. He leans forward intently, flicking the balled up paper of Stiles’ straw at him to make sure he’s actually paying attention. “Listen, if you have a harvest of spice, and there’s only twenty-seven percent chance of your shipment making it to another planet with the Tramontane quarantine in place, and _then_ only a sixteen percent chance of you ever seeing any profit, then you’re going to avoid moving shit off-planet like every other smart dealer in the galaxy.”

Stiles’ face twists, offended. “Hey, don’t talk shit about Roscoe! My ship’s plenty fast enough—”

Derek snorts. “Don’t matter how fast that blue sack of scraps you call a ship is, you can’t race dead space.”

Stiles’ eyes narrow. The cookie crumb glower is back, his eyes frighteningly bright. This time, Derek thinks, the glower might actually be real. “Roscoe is fast enough.”

Derek sighs, conceding the matter with a flap of his dishtowel. There’s no arguing with Stiles when he gets like this. Besides, this bar doesn’t need any more incidents tonight. Derek trusts Stiles about as far as he can throw him, but he likes to think that after a year and a half of encounters like this one, he at least knows him a little.

Stiles heaves a great sigh, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair. It takes him a minute and a half to reluctantly glance Derek’s way again. “Twenty-seven percent, huh?” he muses aloud. “I’d like to see those numbers.”

“I helped a grounded Galactic S.S. Captain run the calculations the other night,” Derek admits, hooking a hand around Stiles’ soda and pulling it in. He steals a sip of it, grimaces at the taste, and returns it to Stiles.

“Mmhmm,” Stiles hums, popping a few almonds in his mouth. “That so?”

“Top of my class in post-secondary. Think I still hold a few records.”

“The S.S shoulda swept you up.”

“They tried.” Derek tells him with a shrug.

“Oh, Mister Hale,” Stiles purrs, batting his eyelashes. “Talk dirty to me, why don’t you. You know that smart talk gets me hot.”

Derek narrows his eyes. One brow arched high, he leans in until he and Stiles are nose to nose. This close, Stiles’ eyes look black instead of that sweet honey color Derek likes so much, cheeks going a delicate pink, mouth dropping open in surprise. Derek gives him a slow, filthy grin, then murmurs something in Trevellyan.

Stiles clears his throat. “What did you say?”

Derek’s grin widens and he leans in even closer, until he can trace the tip of his tongue around the whorl of Stiles’ ear. Then, he whispers, “Get fucked.”

For a moment, Stiles just stares at him. He’s close enough to kiss Derek if he chose it. All it would take is the simplest of movements. Derek’s can see the pores of his skin, the dirty smear of oil across his cheek. He can feel the man’s breath, cool against his mouth. Stiles is barely breathing, eyelashes fluttering as his eyes dip to rest on Derek’s mouth, then back again.

“You sure it’s get fucked?” he finally asks, voice thready with desire. He clears his throat, a cocky grin spreading across his expressive face. He ducks his head, regarding Derek with a slanted, narrow-eyed look through his lashes. “Because all I’m hearing is _fuck me_.”

Derek’s breath catches in his throat. He pauses. Considers.

The smack of flesh against the body of the bar catches them both off guard, jerking their attention up and away. In the far corner, another pilot and his miniature entourage of blitzed party girls are jeering and singing along to the satellite radio, which has switched to something that’s apparently ‘their jam’.

Tramontane had a lot going on for it, said no one ever, but what it did have was music. That and bio-chemical warfare, but Derek waves the thought off the moment it enters his mind. Nobody wants to be thinking about white zones, dead space, or infection at this time of night. The more superstitious folks insist that it’s a sure fire way to bring the dead straight through your doors.

He clears his throat, bending to retrieve the remote from under the bar. With no sympathy whatsoever, he changes the station to a news channel, ignoring the chorus of boos that it elicits.

Derek catches Stiles’ eyes. They’re nice eyes. Big and honey sweet.

Stiles’ lower lip juts out into an exaggerated pout. Those eyes of his are dancing with laughter. “Hey, I liked that song.”

Derek pauses, gaze drawn irresistibly to those lips. From there, his eyes journey to Stiles’ chin, which has a very fine layer of stubble coating it, as if he hadn’t had time to shave this morning. They dip further down, to where the boy’s shirt gapes at the collar, showing off the ghost of his collarbones. Derek wants to bite, right there. He’s willing to bet that Stiles would moan real pretty if he did it too.

He makes a decision, stepping over to the tap when the crowd in the corner starts hollering for refills.

“You know,” he says nonchalantly, casting a glance back at Stiles as he pours. “My sister comes in to relieve me in forty-four minutes.”

Stiles’ eyes widen, his brows arching high as a delighted smile worms its way across his face. “Really?” he breathes, setting his elbow on the bar and resting his head on one hand.

Derek turns back to the now full pitcher, hiding his smile. He’s forgotten the mirror however, and when he looks up, Stiles is staring at him through the glass as if he’s the best thing that he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” Derek tells Stiles’ reflection, hefting the pitcher easily. “I’ve got a place near here. Could maybe teach you a thing or two.”

Stiles’ grin is huge now. He looks two minutes away from springing up and dancing around the bar. Adorable idiot.

“Yeah.” Stiles nods vigorously, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Sounds good to me.”

Derek smirks at him — a proper one this time — and doesn’t even mourn the lost sleep that’s sure to ensue. “Enjoy your nuts.”

.

It’s a damned tragedy that it gets so cold in space. For all that Stiles’ heap of junk ship could fly circles around any Archempire spacecraft, it couldn’t melt an ice cube at its highest temperature. If it wasn’t for the fact that his carbon diffusers were spent to shit, Stiles wouldn’t have ever even pulled into port at Orsto Alpha. He’s been here way too often over the years, and has never been dumb enough to ignore the fact that half the planet’s white-zoned.

One of these days he would learn to not accept the shadier jobs that took him to the wrong side of the galaxy, but that day was not today. Fact of the matter is, every pilot on this side of the quarantine zones don’t have much of a choice in the matter. It was either take sketchy jobs from even sketchier people, or starve. Or turn, Stiles supposes, but he’d rather implode in the vacuum of space than become one of those things out there. So here he is, stuck in the last dusty space port on the Full Orston continent, practically selling himself for the three million credits he needs to get his ship up and running.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair and giving the nape of his nape a good long scratch.

Comfort’s the hum and vibration of a plasma-pulse F20 core engine in mid-hyperspace drive. Ease is the steady, oxygenated chill from the central air circulation vents on a tight and narrow sweep of the outer rim of the Tramontane galaxy.

Reality is the taste of sparkling water and roasted almonds at moon-rise. He catches Derek’s eyes from across the bar and chuckles when the man raises an eyebrow, tapping his watch and holding up nine fingers.

Well, he thinks, raising his glass in salute. If he’s going to be stranded on a white-zoned planet with a penchant for bad music and the walking dead, at least he’s got a pretty face to look at.

.

Derek stumbles in through his front door with Stiles plastered against his back an hour later. They knock into some picture frames when Stiles slams Derek up against the wall of the foyer, his fingers and mouth running over every inch of skin that they uncover. Somewhere in the rush, Derek drops his keys too, but honestly, he could care less. Somebody could break into the building and steal everything he owns, and he’d only be pissed if they interrupted the blowjob that Stiles is clearly gunning for.

“You gonna let me fuck you here?” Stiles gasps against his neck, hands fumbling for Derek’s belt. He finds it easily, but it takes him a minute to work the clasp loose with shaking fingers. Once it’s been worked loose, he makes quick work of the zipper, fingers darting inside to pump Derek’s dick twice before he gives up and just yanks the pants down Derek’s thighs. He’s breathing heavy, eyes bright. He drops to his knees without missing a beat. “Or you the type to get all fussy about a bed?”

Derek’s head thumps back against the wall the minute Stiles gets his clever mouth around his dick, his hands fumbling around for something to hold onto until they find the back of Stiles’ head. He grins, tugging once, and then when Stiles just makes a pleased sound, jerks him in hard. Stiles shivers all over, swallowing easily around the full length of Derek’s cock.

“You tell me,” Derek tells him huskily, rocking his hips forward ever so gently. Stiles makes an eager sound in the back of his throat, cheeks hollowing out as he sucks, so on the next thrust, Derek doesn’t hold back. He fucks in hard, burying his cock down Stiles’ throat. Then he does it again, and again, using his grip on the back of Stiles’ head to make sure he takes every inch of him. “I did make you wait for quite awhile. You might not be able to make it all the way to the bed.”

Stiles snorts, jerking his mouth off of Derek’s cock. His mouth is red and wet, a strand of saliva stretching between his lips and Derek’s dick. His eyes are narrowed. “You questioning my stamina, Mister Hale?”

Derek bites down on a smile. “Not at all, Mister Stilinski.”

"Ah ah, it's _Captain_ Stilinski," Stiles tuts, wagging his fingers in Derek's face. Derek snaps at them playfully, catching the tip of an index finger between his teeth and nibbling. Stiles goes sort of cross-eyed. “But, fine. Bed it is. That way I don’t have to move you once I’ve fucked your damn brains out.”

Derek can’t help laughing at that, a quick bark of sound that’s silenced quickly as Stiles surges back to his feet, palm coming up to frame the back of Derek’s skull as he tugs Derek in for a wet kiss.

They stumble into things the whole way to the bedroom, just because they can’t stop touching each other. It’s exhilarating. Derek can’t remember the last person that had this much of an effect on him. Can’t remember the last time that he’d wanted someone as badly as he wants Stiles.

Derek’s bed isn’t made. His room is exactly the way he left it this morning, books scattered all over one half of the bad, blank pieces of paper with half-scribbled equations on top of them. Stiles snorts when he sees them, hiding his laughter in Derek’s chest.

“You’re a total nerd,” he crows, walking Stiles backwards until they land on the good side of the bed.

“Thought that got you hot?” Derek counters, rolling his hips up against Stiles’.

Stiles grins at him, tugging his shirt off in one smooth motion before he hunkers down over Derek, playfully rubbing their noses together. “Oh trust me,” he purrs. “It’s got me plenty hot all right.”

“Prove it then,” Derek gasps, body arching off the bed when Stiles gently tugs a nipple between his teeth. “Fuck me.”

“Say it again,” Stiles teases, sitting back up so he can tug down his zipper. Derek watches him do it, eyes darkening as he takes in Stiles’ cock, long and flushed a pretty pink. “In that language you used earlier, whatever it was.”

Derek sucks in a deep breath when Stiles rubs his cock against his stomach, letting the head catch against Derek’s navel. “I’ll tell you in ten languages if it’ll get you to fuck me faster,” he growls, flipping them easily, hand darting out to cradle Stiles’ skull in case it glances off one of the books.

“Mmm,” Stiles purrs, taking the lube from Derek when he offers it. “Oh yeah, baby. Manhandle me harder. Brains, beauty, _and_ strength. What else you hiding under that lovely exterior?”

Derek’s whole body jerks when the first finger slides in, his eyes rolling back. It’s been so fucking long. He’s forgotten how good this feels. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

Stiles’ eyes darken, twisting a second finger in. “Trust me, Derek Hale. I plan to.”

.

Derek fucks like a dream. He fucks like a goddamn thoroughbred racehorse on steroids and by the end, they’re both worn out, sticky with sweat and come. The air conditioner kicks on with a low hum and Stiles stretches luxuriously, the cool air on his skin a godsend.

He turns to look at Derek, who’s got his face pressed into the pillows, his hair sticking up in every direction. Stiles snorts, rubbing his hand through it just to muss it even more. Derek moans a little, batting ineffectually in his direction, but doesn’t make any real attempt to stop him.

“I’d say that was a success,” he tells Derek, wriggling down next to him. Normally he’d be getting the itch to grab his shit and leave right now, but there’s always been something about Derek, ever since Stiles first saw his surly little face behind the bar. After successfully getting him in bed, Stiles is finding that he doesn’t really have much of an inclination to leave.

Derek grumbles something into the pillow and Stiles laughs, cupping a hand around his ear. “Sorry, what was that? Stiles Stilinski is the best I ever had? Well damn, man, way to make a guy blush.”

With a tilt of his head, Derek surfaces from his nest of plush, one green eye narrowed in Stiles’ direction. “I said,” he growls. “Don’t you ever stop _talking_?”

“Probably not.”

“Ugh,” Derek grunts, rolling over to show Stiles his back. “Go to sleep.”

Stiles thinks about it. Sleep here, with a warm and mostly cuddly Derek, or head out to some grimy hotel where he’ll spend most of the night hoping he won’t catch something. The decision isn’t a very hard one.

“Hey,” Derek says, once Stiles has pushed most of the books off the bed and made a place for himself in the warm blankets. Stiles grunts, surprised to find Derek looking back at him.

“Yeah?”

Derek’s mouth twists, as if he’s not sure that he actually wants to say whatever’s on his mind. Stiles’ stomach gives a little flip. Here it is. Derek’s kicking him out. He’s going to demand Stiles never step foot in his bar again.

Instead of any of that, Derek smiles at him. It’s a little thing, but it seems more real than anything Stiles has seen so far. “I might have a job for you, after all.”

Stiles perks up. “Seriously? Like what? Cause this better not be a prostitution thing. I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

Derek chuckles into the pillow, one section of his hair flopping down over his forehead. “It’s not prostitution, Stiles.”

“Okay,” Stiles says agreeably. “So what’s the dealio?”

Derek watches him for a moment longer before he licks his lips, tugging Stiles in closer, until their chests are pressed together. “You said your ship was fast, right?”

Stiles nods warily. “Fastest in the galaxy.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

“Derek,” Stiles hisses, bopping their foreheads together gently. “Spit it out.”

Derek sucks in a deep breath, then asks, “What do you _really_ know about the dead zones?”


End file.
